"Ye have done it unto me."-Matt. xxv, 40.
A poor wayfaring man of grief
Hath often cross'd me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, "Nay:"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake;
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an Angel's portion then;
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone,
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:
I ran to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd,
Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side :
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd;
I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And Peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, comdemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honor'd him 'midst shame and scorn;
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, "I will."
Then in a moment to my view
The Stranger started from disguise,
The tokens in his hands I knew,
My Saviour stood before my eyes.
He spake; and my poor name he named;
"Of me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."
68, MRS. H. B. STOWE.
"Still with thee."
Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh,
When the bird waketh and the shadows flee, Fairer than the morning, lovelier than the daylight,
Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with 3800sthee! bit. 15.1woig isw To Roo8 94T
When sinks the soul subdued by toil and slumber,
Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer, Sweet the repose, beneath thy wings o'ershading,
But sweeter still to wake and find thee there. So shall it be at last in that bright morning, When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee; O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with thee!
Think gently of the erring one!
O let us not forget,
However darkly stained by sin,
He is our brother yet!
Heir of the same inheritance,
Child of the selfsame God,
He hath but stumbled in the path
We have in weakness trod.
Speak gently to the erring ones!
We yet may lead them back,
With holy words, and tones of love,
From misery's thorny track.
Forget not, brother, thou hast sinned,
And sinful yet mayst be;
Deal gently with the erring heart,
As God hath dealt with thee.
Down the dark future through long generations The sounds of war grow fainter and then cease,
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear at last the voice of Christ say "Peace,"
Peace, and no longer, from its brazen portals
The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies,
And beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
When shall we meet again?
Meet ne'er to sever?
When will peace, wreath her chain
Round us forever?
Our hearts will ne'er repose,
Safe from each blast that blows,
In this dark vale of woes, -
Soon shall we meet again,
Meet ne'er to sever,
Soon shall peace wreath her chain
Round us forever:
Our hearts will then repose
Secure from fears or woes;
Our songs of praise will close
Never,
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal,
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end and way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Shed kindly light amid the encircling gloom, And lead me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet: I do not ask to see
The distant scene: one step enough for me.
So long thy power hath blessed me, surely still
'Twill lead me on!
Through dreary doubt, through pain and sorrow till
And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since and lost a while.
Happy the meek, whose gentle breast,
Clear as the summer's evening ray,
Calm as the regions of the blest,
Enjoys on earth celestial day."
|